


Iteration

by peet4paint



Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Crack, Dubious Consent, F/M, Humor, M/M, Spanking, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-09
Updated: 2011-08-09
Packaged: 2017-10-22 11:00:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peet4paint/pseuds/peet4paint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam gives Puck a congratulatory ass slap after a winning game, Puck doesn't handle it well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Iteration

**Author's Note:**

> The dub-con warning is for the Puck/Santana sex scenes. There is some one-sided Puck/Finn. There is no penetrative sex in this fic.
> 
> This is a fic for kink-bingo. Prompt = wildcard (I chose spanking...huh? Wonder why?)
> 
> This fic was originally written for [this prompt](http://glee-kink-meme.livejournal.com/10780.html?thread=17342236#t17342236) at the glee-kink-meme.
> 
> Huge thanks to the OP for prompting this in the first place. It was one of those happy coincidences where I really needed a good prompt and they prompted...well...that.
> 
> Also thanks to my two lovely betas, fillefantome and anon_fangirl. B, you always call me out on my attempts at changing something mid-stream. R, you always provide a good hard smack to the head about the whole sentence fragment sitch.
> 
> As always, thanks to Dre. You're the reason I write, the light in my cloudy life.

Puck’s life is going along fine, just the way he likes it. At least, it’s going fine ‘til Finn’s enough of a dumbass to get himself cut from the team. Last year it wouldn’t’ve mattered, last year it wouldn’t’ve made any difference.

Last year they didn’t have the new guy.

Sam’s _nice_ , is the thing. Sam’s one of those dudes who, like, helps grandmas cross the street and shit. He’s the kind of dude who would give you the shirt off his back—not just take it off to get catcalls from cougars, but actually give it to you.

But Sam Evans is new. Sam Evans doesn’t know Puck’s rules.

Normally, Puck would’ve thought of that, but normally he’s not preoccupied thinking about how he has a frickin’ daughter out there. A daughter who’s looking to somebody else for support. A daughter who will never call him daddy. Who’ll never know he’s the one who gave her that throwing arm.

So, when they actually win a game for once—when Evans pulls off play after play with Beiste cheering them on from the sidelines and Puck’s the one to make the game winning touchdown—it happens. ‘IT’ happens, capital ‘I’ capital ‘T’.

The rest of the guys know. Not _know_ , know. Not even Finn knows that much about him. But they know enough to lay off. They know what he wants them to know—it’s a faggot thing to do.

Only Santana _knows_. Only that bitch is conniving enough to find out his one weakness—his one fucking flaw.

So when Sam slaps Puck on the ass, it’s unexpected. It’s unexpected and unplanned for—hasn’t happened in years now—so he does the unthinkable. He moans.

He bites it off right away. Twists it around in his throat until it’s more a yell than a moan, but the damage is already done. When Puck looks back at him, Sam’s eyeing him with shock—blue eyes startled, standing out electric on the football field.

Puck looks away, backs away. Runs. Fucking runs away—like a fucking coward. Like a fucking girl.

He’s lucky, though. Lucky they won for once. Lucky everyone else on the fucking field was too elated to catch his secret. Lucky Sam _is_ such a nice guy. The kind of dude who’d never push it.

The locker room is empty when he gets there. Nothing but him and his reflection. His reflection looks like a fucking coward. His reflection looks like a fucking pansy-ass girl. He puts a fist through the glass.

+++

Sam is a nice guy. A really nice guy. So he doesn’t push it. He doesn’t push it at all. Instead he wants to talk about it.

“So—ah—what was—ah—that?” Sam asks, rubbing a hand over his neck, as they’re sitting in Chem lab.

Puck had tried to get someone else for a partner, anyone really. But everyone knew that he and Hudson worked together—and now that Hudson and Rachel are dating, Puck’s shit out of luck when it comes to any kind of classroom partnerships. It’s either Sam or Ben Israel, and nothing is as bad as Ben Israel.

Or at least that’s what he thought until he started this conversation.

“Shut the fuck up, Evans,” Puck growls, shooting a general dirty look at everyone in the room. Everyone who’d even been thinking about looking up from their lab table is suddenly fascinated by the black Formica covering it.

“It’s just. It seemed like maybe you—well—liked it,” Sam says, looking up at Puck questioningly.

“Jesus, don’t you know what shut the fuck up means?” Puck says, pissed. Then he looks at Sam. Looks at Sam in his fucking safety goggles, with his confused little wrinkle making them go even more bizarre. And like that, he’s not pissed anymore—it just evaporates on a wave of defeat. Being pissed at Sam is like being pissed at a puppy—no matter how loud you get, he’s just gonna keep looking up at you with those big trusting eyes. “Just do the fucking lab, Evans.”

“Okay,” Sam says, shooting one more glance at Puck. Then he’s using the eye-dropper to add whatever’s in the big tube to whatever’s in the little tube.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing, man?” Puck asks, flinging his goggles across the room. He hits Ben Israel right between the eyes. Bull’s-eye.

“I was top of my chemistry class at my old school,” Sam says, shrugging his shoulder.

The little tube explodes.

“Top of your class, huh?” Puck says, patting out the flames on his sweatshirt.

“Well,” Sam says, grabbing the hose from their sink. “There were only two of us.” He turns the spray on Puck.

The small flames suddenly grow ‘til Puck has to pull off his sweatshirt. Puck stares down at the remains—his Ma had just got that for him last week. “Two of you, huh?” he says.

+++

Puck ends up with Sam’s sweatshirt—of course. It’s blue and soft as fuck and doesn’t smell like Axe at all. Smells like something else instead—something he doesn’t know from anywhere else, but something he could really sink his teeth into. It probably cost double the amount of the one that just died a painful death on the Chem floor.

And Sam’s given it to him.

“Dude, it’s all my fault,” Sam says. “Mrs. Peterson is always warning us not to do the labs without reading all the instructions first. And I didn’t. Again. Seriously, it’s yours.”

“Evans, I’m not taking your sweatshirt,” Puck says. He balls it up to throw at Sam’s head or something, just get the thing away from him already.

Sam crosses his arms in front of his chest. “No, Puck. If I’d just been paying attention to class instead of whatever happened on the football field, this never would’ve happened.”

Puck feels his face turn bright red. He walks away from Sam, throwing the sweatshirt on the ground behind him.

“Wait,” Sam says, and that’s just what Sam would say—just what Puck expects him to say. What he doesn’t expect is Sam’s hand on his shoulder tugging, turning him around. “Dude, it’s none of my business. I get that. But I—what happened back there. Really. I don’t get it.”

Puck shakes his shoulder—tries to get out of Sam’s grip. It’s a no-go. Sam is all muscle. Not that Puck’s soft or shit, but Sam is like a rock or something. Puck tries fighting free for a minute more—then he whines in the back of his throat, slumps in defeat.

“What, Evans? What don’t you get?” Puck would rather be anywhere but here. His face is on fucking fire, embarrassment rolling off him in waves. The only thing that lets him know he’s not in some twisted version of hell right now, is the fact that nobody else is in the hallway.

Sam looks over his shoulder, checks the whole hallway. “Uh—was that…that was a—a _sex_ noise, wasn’t it?” he says, face turning pink around the edges, voice quiet as a whisper.

“No, Evans,” Puck says around a sneer, “that wasn’t a sex noise—it was a fucking fog horn. Of course it was a sex noise.”

Sam’s face starts growing redder, pink turning into tomato red. “So that actually…I mean, the guys always said—and there was porn with— _that_. But I always figured they were—you know—pulling my chain or something. I mean—I never thought people actually…did—that.”

Puck looks away, hands clenching into fists. “Yeah, well. Apparently they do. Or hell, maybe people don’t. But I do.”

Sam’s grip turns different, just as tight, but more personal now. Finger’s feeling out the tendons of his shoulder, thumb dipping into the hollow of the collar bone, rubbing, rubbing. “You mean you…You get off on—ah—“ his voice drops off entirely, ears turning startlingly red—“ _spanking._ ”

Puck finds an unknown reserve of energy—breaks away—tears himself from Sam’s grip. And this time when he runs away he really runs, none of this half-assed stuff.

+++

It all started with Finn—not that Finn knew that.

Finn was sort of a moron.

It all started when they actually made varsity football freshman year. Granted they mainly just made the cut because there was literally no talent in Lima—including coaching talent. But Finn and Puck didn’t know that at the time.

They were so excited—so totally pumped—to actually get to play their freshman year. They started doing everything they could to get ready for the year.

There were protein shakes and strength training, play-writing and assigning of lucky underwear. And there was ass slapping.

They were going to make some changes on the team—turn it all around—turn the team from the last in conference to winning state. And if they were the ones to make all those changes, they had to have the perfect ass slap—the perfect victory slap.

They spent weeks going over every type of slap imaginable. Hard and soft. Quick and slow. Some with strange beats; some with bizarre dances beforehand. And then there was the memorable one with the body paint.

And Puck didn’t think anything of it. He didn’t think anything of it at all.

The season started up and the two of them were ready—so fucking ready to kill every team in their division.

And then they lost a game.

And then they lost another.

And another.

They didn’t win a single game that year.

It was reason enough to be pissed off—which Puck was. It was reason enough to be tense—which Puck also was.

It wasn’t reason enough for Puck to twitch— _twitch_ —every time Finn walked behind him in the hallway.

+++

Finn never caught on—he really was a moron. But with Sam, it seems like Puck’s luck has finally run out.

Practice is torture. It’s this never-ending string of plays that revolve around Puck and Sam. Every time they have to be synced, have to be connected. There’s eye-contact, constant throughout the night. Sam’s a professional, doesn’t bring shit with him onto the field. But Puck can’t help but feel Sam’s weighing every play he makes—or fails to make. Weighing every action—every motion—every emotion that crosses his face.

So Puck fucks up. He fucks up a lot. He keeps dropping the fucking ball like he’s back in middle school or something. And that’s only when he catches it in the first place, which isn’t often.

It’s pitiful.

Puck’s pitiful.

And apparently Puck’s not the only one who feels that way.

After practice, Beiste keeps him back. “Hit the showers, gentlemen. And don’t forget, I want to see you here on time tomorrow. Puckerman, you’re doing laps.”

Puck groans, but actually all he feels is relief. If the Beiste keeps him long enough, everyone else will be gone by the time he gets back to the locker room. “How many?”

“Just get started already, Puckerman,” Beiste says. “Right now I’m inclined to keep you running straight through ‘til tomorrow morning. You’ve lost your drive. Must’ve been the damned tater tots.”

Puck ducks his head, jogs over to the track and starts running. He keeps the pace steady—not too fast. If he’s running all night, he’s not gonna get worn out in the first ten minutes. The world blurs around him—focus drawn to the white lines on the track. After a few minutes, they almost stand out, almost pop right off the track.

His breathing pattern changes—slips into the perfect in-out in-out he’s grown used to—between one breath and the next.

Time stands still—or maybe it flies. It changes, though, ‘cause way before Puck expects it Beiste is calling him off the track. “Puckerman. Enough.”

He lopes over to her, ready for a world-class berating. But she doesn’t give it to him. Instead, she just looks at him—right at him. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, Puckerman, but whatever it is, work it out. I don’t want to cut you for not having your head in the game. You’re a damn fine player, Puckerman, and it would really hurt the team. So get over it. Talk to Pillsbury if you have to.” She pats him on the shoulder and walks away.

Puck thinks about going to the locker room but he turns back to the track. Maybe if he can just run long enough, the world will be magically better. Or maybe he'll just be able to run away from it all.

+++

When Puck looks up again it’s night—sky dark and shadows long. And Sam is sitting there in the bleachers, looking completely at home, like he’s been sitting there for the past hour or so.

“Hey,” Sam says, sketching a wave. He tosses a towel at Puck.

Puck catches it on auto-pilot, wraps it around his neck. He’s about to turn around, head into the locker room. Then Sam’s talking again. “Can we talk about this now?”

Puck looks up at him, eyebrows raised. “No. We can’t talk about this now. Why the fuck did you think I’d be willing to talk about this now?”

“I thought—with no one else around…” Sam looks a little lost almost, but it’s hard to tell, night casting weird shadows across his face.

Puck sneers. “You thought with no one else around—what? I’d open up to you? Spread out my dirty laundry for you to pick through? Or did you think we’d bond. That’s it, right? You thought you’d tell me some embarrassing thing that happened to you—how you fell over at the skating rink when you were seven or what-the-fuck-ever—and I would just open up. Spill my guts for you. Well guess what, kitchen’s closed. You want to talk about embarrassing shit with someone, dial Pillsbury. I’m sure she’d love to tell you all about her secret love of argyle.”

“Would you stop. Jeez Puckerman, stop putting words in my mouth. That wasn’t what I wanted to say at all. I just wanted…” Sam trails off—seems to be lost for words.

And that pisses Puck off more than ever. “Oh, I get it. You’re saying you _get it_ . You’re saying you _get_ what I’m going through because you like the same thing.”

Sam’s head is turned down. He says, “I do,” quietly.

Puck rolls his eyes, words still pouring out. “Seriously, just shove the fuck off. Let me go—“ He stops himself, hears what Sam said. “Wait, what?” Puck asks, backing away, stumbling over his own two feet, almost tripping.

“I—“ Sams’ jaw moves, Adam’s apple bobbing up-down in his throat. “I always thought it was…wrong. I figured nobody really did— _that_ —in real life. I mean the guys showed me the porn—told me it was— _normal_. But I didn’t believe them. I couldn’t believe them. That somebody else would actually like that…” He trails off, gaze fixed on the ground.

Puck’s trying to decide whether to stay or leave, whether to say something or just turn around and walk the fuck away. And then Sam’s talking again—even in the darkness, Puck can see Sam’s eyes meeting his—practically piercing him. “Listen, okay. I know you didn’t want me to find out this way. Or—at all. But, can I just be happy about it? Is that okay? For me to like that we have this thing in common? I won’t talk about it, I promise. I just—knowing there’s someone else out there who likes it too—knowing there’s someone else in school. It helps.”

Puck’s mouth is dry. He tries to say something, but nothing comes out. He clears his throat, swallows. “Yeah. Whatever,” he says. Then he turns around, walks to his car, shadow stretching out in front of him.

+++

Santana was a mistake. Santana was the kind of mistake he’s never making again.

The thing about Santana is, she’s smart. Even though Finn never caught on to anything, Santana did. Santana saw the two of them together. She put two and two together and came up with fifteen.

It happened after the football season was over, uniforms and balls put away not to be looked at again ‘til sophomore year. When Puck was feeling even more irritable than he had been, more anxious for it without a chance of anything from Finn, Santana made her move. She told him she wanted to sleep with him.

And Puck, he’s got an overactive sex-drive. He knows this. So when Santana asked, Puck said, “Hell yeah.”

He should’ve known better. He should’ve remembered how much of a conniving bitch Santana really is, but he didn’t remember that until he was stretched out on the bed with her, making his way down her body. Honestly, the only reason he remembered it then was that she stopped him.

“Cool off, boy,” she said, tugging on his ‘hawk. “Where’s the fire?”

It was stupid. He knew this about Santana. But for some reason he forgot every single time. She was like some giant cat or something, fucking toying with him.

She wriggled out from under him, fast as a fucking snake, and just as slippery. And then she was behind him, nails scoring his back, long parallel lines trailing all the way down to his tail-bone. It felt good. It felt good at the same time that it felt terrible.

When she got to the base of his spine, one hand disappeared, only to return a few seconds later. Slapping him. Fire burst behind his eyes, body rocking forward. Blood was pounding in his ears suddenly, even as she hit his ass again, harder.

He whimpered, voice sounding desperate. He shook his head, trying to clear the fog of lust. Something wasn’t right here. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t place it through the fire of another smack on his ass.

“Shhh,” she said, spare hand stroking up and down his spine. “That’s right. Let it all out. Tell Mamacita what you need. Tell her how much you want it.”

She hit him again, and suddenly the fog lifted a little. Enough for him to remember—this was _not_ the plan for the night. “Santana, what…”

And hand met skin—faster. Short sharp smacks hitting him over and over again in the same place, right where his ass cheeks met. And the pleasure-pain fog rolled him under again.

Some amount of time later, could’ve been minutes, could’ve been hours, Puck felt the tension build to a head—felt himself start to come. It was only then he realized Santana’s hand was around his cock, only then he felt the tears streaming down his face, heard the words coming out of his mouth.

He was saying, over and over again, “Thank you.”

+++

Sam’s already started on the lab when Puck finally rolls into Chem—Schue held him after class talking about what song Puck was gonna do for Glee this week.

Sam’s weighing some white powder on a little paper on the scale, concentration fixed on getting exactly the right amount.

It’s unusual to catch him unguarded like this, to look at Sam without any worry about Sam looking back. So, Puck takes his time. He thinks, _This is someone like me._ Thinks, _This is somebody else who likes—_ He cuts himself off there, not safe to think it even, not with how vicious Karofsky is, how brutal Azimio can be.

Sam looks up at him then, like he can feel the weight of Puck’s eyes on him or something. His eyes look huge inside the goggles, smile equally huge. “Hey! Guess what.”

It doesn’t fit, is the thing. The fact that someone like that—some nice guy with a perfect life and perfect smile and perfect family—wants a…a firm hand…it doesn’t add up. “What?” Puck says, talking on automatic.

“We get to make a bomb,” Sam says.

And yeah, Puck doesn’t get it. The kid sparkles. He fucking bubbles. He can’t want somebody to…yeah, they gotta have their wires crossed somewhere. “Cool,” he says, thinking—thinking.

There’s some kind of misunderstanding going on, and Puck—he’s gotta figure out where.

It’s not until Sam’s adding some kind of liquid to the powder that Puck replays their conversation. Just as the Sam squeezes the dripper-thing, Puck says, “Wait.”

At least this time the explosion is expected. Puck has time to duck behind the lab table.

And if Sam doesn’t manage—well, that must be the just desserts his Ma’s always talking about.

+++

“I’m sorry, Ma’am,” Sam says, all shame-faced. ‘ _Ma’am_ ’ like he’s a fucking grade-schooler or cowboy or something. And this image flashes into Puck’s head, Sam in a cowboy hat and chaps and nothing else with that huge fucking grin on his face. _And a hard—_ Puck scrubs a hand over his face, rubs the thought away. The…the _other_ thing is enough without sex getting into the picture too.

Mrs. Peterson is blushing, looking away from a Sam who’s standing with a text book covering the parts that Puck most definitely was _not_ thinking about just now. “It’s fine,” she says, voice coming out strangled. “You’ll have to go to the nurse’s station—get checked for burns. Noah, see he makes it there—intact.”

Puck grumbles under his breath about ungrateful bitches, pulling Sam out of the room by the elbow.

Just as they’re about to close the door behind them, Peterson’s voice follows them into the hallway. “Boys, you’ll have to make up the lab tonight. Come as soon as last period is done. Oh—and please make sure you’re fully clothed. _Both_ of you.”

“Jesus,” Puck says to Sam, “just ‘cause we burn up two outfits in two days doesn’t mean we’re like perverted or something.”

“Dude, don’t forget the time the football team went streaking,” Sam says, shooting an awkward smile at Puck.

And yeah, Puck remembers that day. He can hardly forget it. Sam’d been right behind him, voice echoing in the empty hallways, laughter ringing off the walls. He pushes it aside.

“Seriously though, Evans. How do you start two fires in two days?” Puck asks, casting a quick glance at him. This time the explosion had been more localized, pretty much hitting Sam’s waistband, eating through both jeans and boxers until they’d dropped off, pooling around Sam’s ankles. And with Puck being all tucked under the lab table he’d gotten a bird’s eye view of Sam’s equipment.

Sam didn’t have anything to be embarrassed about in the locker room.

At all.

Not that the guy was huge or anything—he wasn’t about to get offered all the prime roles in the porn industry or anything, but he—well he didn’t have _anything_ to be embarrassed about.

But Sam seems pretty embarrassed, face pink, avoiding eye-contact with Puck. He chokes out a laugh. “Just lucky I guess.”

And for some reason, for the first time since this whole _thing_ with Sam started up, Puck feels like he actually has his feet under himself—feels in control of something.

He feels mature. For possibly the first time in his life he feels mature. “Tonight. Tonight, you and me? We’re talking.”

Sam looks up at him, confused. “About…”

Puck raises an eyebrow.

Sam’s face turns from pink to bright red. He hunches in on himself a little. “T-talking?”

Puck smirks—nods—starts walking backwards. He figures he has enough time for a nice nap before Glee.

“Wait, Puck,” Sam says, voice coming out high. “Do you have any spare pants?”

Puck laughs—turns around and keeps walking.

“Underwear?” Sam’s voice follows him down the hallway. Puck can hardly hear it over his own laughter. “Puck? Anything?”

Puck’s pushing the door open, sun glaring on the parking lot, when he hears one more shout from Sam. “Puckerman, you’re a—“

The glass door cuts Sam’s words off. Puck smiles to himself, stretching. Yep, plenty of time for a nice long nap.

+++

The thing with Santana shouldn’t’ve been a bad thing. It wouldn’t’ve been a bad thing. Really.

It was simple. Easy. Something he could totally get behind—or not. Whatever.

And it would’ve been okay. It’ wouldn’t’ve been great, better if it was from the other side or some shit, but okay. It was the twenty-first century. Dominatrix chicks were in. And guys who dug that—well it wasn’t unheard of.

(It would’ve been better the other way. He could’ve bragged about it then. But…)

Santana, though. She made it into something it wasn’t. She made it into a fucking game—playing with him, just like he knew she would.

It started out simple; she wouldn’t let him get off until he begged her for it. Not too bad, not too much of a stretch from how far he was lowered.

Then it was these stories, things she’d say as she turned his ass bright red. How she wanted to put something in his ass. A finger. A dildo.

Her tongue.

It startled him at first—making him both ice-cold and on fire at the same time.

But it was just talk, just her whispering in his ear, biting it a little, hand slap-smacking marks into him until he couldn’t even hear her words anymore anyway.

Then she talked about fucking him. Actually fucking him. With a strap-on.

It made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Made his tongue feel fuzzy in his mouth.

But still, it was just words. She didn’t have a strap-on. She was all talk. And talk—talk was just air.

It wasn’t until a couple months had gone by—

A couple months of spankings and hand-jobs and Santana having him by the fucking throat and she said, “I can picture it, you know.” Her little fist was around him—pumping his cock just right. He was close—so close, all it would’ve taken to push him over the edge would’ve been one slap. Wouldn’t even have to be on his ass, she could’ve slapped him anywhere and he would’ve gone off like a rocket.

She didn’t though—didn’t slap him.

She spoke again, instead. “Do you want that niño? Do you want him, all his muscle, pushing in here?” The hand that’d been on his cock moved back—back—until it was on his ass, finger tracing up and down his crack. “You’d be so pretty together, Finn holding you down—slapping that ass of yours. Pushing in here.” Her finger traced his hole, trip-tickling over it.

And suddenly—inexplicably—he was coming. Clenching down on nothing and coming, nothing touching him at all—nothing but the words.

+++

It was different that time—the words. They weren’t air. They weren’t just useless bits of air anymore. They were more like molasses, thick and impossible. Syrup words working down him—into him—until they stuck into his brain.

+++  
Making up labs sucked. Making up labs in Chem bit the big one. Except in the ways it didn’t.

Yeah, they were stuck after school in a closed off little classroom with _no_ windows.

And yeah, making bombs was _way_ more boring than it sounded. At least, it was when Sam wasn’t making them without reading the instructions first.

But the awesome thing about making up labs was Peterson had to take off as soon as school was over to pick up her kids. So instead of sitting through Peterson’s boring-ass lectures about ‘the proper way to pipette’ and ‘msds is your friend’ every five seconds, they got old man Murdock. Puck was secretly sure that the dude was actually dead. He’d never seen the guy’s eyes open once in the two and a half years of detentions and make-work.

So it was pretty much like being unsupervised in a room full of highly flammable and poisonous and otherwise destructive things.

Granted, it would be way more exciting if he had anybody other than the walking-disaster-area of Sam Evans as a Chem partner.

“Dude, don’t touch anything,” Puck says, tugging the stool away from the table. Sam goes to grab the instructions from his backpack. Puck’s hand closes around his wrist. “What’d I just say?”

Sam looks up at him, sheepish. “I figured you were just, like, making a joke or something,” he says, sitting in his own stool. He slides a little on the stool, nylon shorts almost sending him to the floor for a second. Puck tightens his grip.

Puck chuckles to himself a little. It’s fun seeing Sam stuck in the fucking cum-shorts like a freshman.

(The nurse keeps shorts for when the boys have ‘accidents.’ They’re bright green. And short as fuck.)

Sam shifts again, twisting his wrist a little in Puck’s grip. “Uh, Puck—let go. We have to get started. If we don’t get to the field by five, Beiste is going to kill us. She seemed pretty pissed last night.”

Puck tightens his grip for a second. Then he lets go, leans back on the stool, arms braced on the lab-bench behind them. “We’re not doing the fucking lab, Sam,” he says, around a smirk.

“Puck,” Sam says, eyes gone huge, “I have to. Seriously. I promised I’d get all B’s this semester, and I’m already getting a C in Algebra. If I don’t do this lab I’m getting a D in this class.”

“Relax, Evans,” Puck says, smirk growing. “I already copied Rachel’s lab-report. We’ll get fucking A’s on this lab.”

Sam deflates a little. Then he’s avoiding Puck’s eyes, saying, “Hey, man. Thanks! I’ll owe you one. Guess that means we can take off, huh?”

Sam’s already got his backpack over one shoulder when Puck reaches out again—grabs Sam’s wrist again. Only this time, it’s less restraint and more…more something else he’s not thinking about.

“So, here’s the thing, Evans. I been thinking about our little ‘talks’ from the past few days and something…just doesn’t add up.” Puck’s finger traces over the veins in Sam’s wrist—mapping out skin and tendon, bone and muscle.

Sam’s quiet, eyes closed. For a second Puck’s worried he’s pushed things too far, but when he makes to take his hand away, Sam’s eyes open. They’re slitted, pupils blown ‘til black is almost all there is. “Wha…” He shakes his head once, hard. Seems to break out of it a little. “What are you…” Then he’s looking away, blush spreading across his cheeks. “Oh.”

“Right,” Puck says, hand returning to Sam’s arm, this time tracing a path down to his hand. “ ‘ _Oh_ ’.” He rubs over knuckles, between them. “So, what I can’t figure is what you’re lyin’ about here, little Sammikins. Are you actually turned on by the idea of somebody giving you a nice—“ his fingers flick against Sam’s—“ _hard_ —“ flick again—“spanking? Or…c’mon, Evans. Shed some light on the situation.”

“Uh—“ Sam’s voice comes out on a pant, tongue flicking lightning-quick across his lips. “Um, what was the question again?” Puck takes his hand from Sam’s. Lifts it _just_ enough. Brings it down in a slap across the back of Sam’s hand.

It startles Sam—makes his eyes go from almost closed to open wide. His face drains of color, body tensed. “No,” he says, voice coming out harsh. He swallows hard—looks down at the pink spreading across his hand. “It—it’s not exactly the same. I don’t want exactly…that.”

And Puck kind of hoped he’d been wrong—‘cause now he’s left with nothing to really do. Nowhere to really go from here. “Okay,” he says, pushing the stool back from the lab table, giving Sam’s hand one last squeeze, warning this time, then letting go.

+++

The thing is, Puck had a plan. He had a plan all worked out. But only for if Sam said, ‘yes.’ Only for if Sam said, ‘that was exactly what I meant.’

It was a good plan, too. He’d thought about it a whole hour, lying in his truck and _not_ sleeping.

He was gonna give Sam what he wanted.

After all, it couldn’t be too hard, right? He’d been on the receiving end of it enough. He should’ve picked it up by osmosis if nothing else.

And he wouldn’t be like Santana. Wouldn’t pull that shit. Wouldn’t just—

Just—

+++

That night, the night he came just from imagining a dude in him, _there_ , Puck had been pretty damned fucked up. He’d been shaking all over, curled into a fetal position. Fucked up.

But Santana—

She’d been almost more surprised than Puck.

She stood there for a minute looking down at him, and then her mouth had curled up, bitterness written all over her face. “You really are a faggot,” she’d said. She turned around—walked out the door.

Just as it was closing she’d said, “Stop being such a fucking girl.”

And he had.

Not then.

As soon as the door had closed, he’d tucked himself into a tighter ball and imagined he was dead.

Imagined he’d never fucking existed at all.

That it’d just been his Ma and Sarah all along. Hell, that without him around, his Pops had stayed in the picture.

He fell asleep like that.

Eventually.

And the next day, when Santana told him she was breaking up with him for his credit score, he’d rolled his eyes and called her a cunt.

He’d also thrown three guys into the dumpster, slusheed Berry, and given Ben Israel a patriotic wedgy.

And he’d told the whole football team, in no uncertain terms, to lay the fuck off with the ass slaps.

‘Cause Puck was a man. He was a manly man with grunting and body hair and weight lifting.

And one thing about manly men—they damn-well didn’t enjoy getting spanked.

+++

So yeah, Puck’d had a plan. One where he showed Sam that it could be manly to get spanked. Not that even Puck believed that really, but Sam wasn’t exactly the smartest dude around.

The thing about Sam was, it was pretty damned apparent he hadn’t had a helluva lot of experience, and Puck figured that if he told Sam it was cool from the beginning, Sam’d believe him.

But, Sam didn’t say ‘yes.’

He didn’t say he wanted to have a good spanking.

So, Puck was pretty much out of ideas.

+++

Getting out on the football field is like some kind of torture or something. The kind with things shoved under your fingernails, or maybe the water boarding kind.

It isn’t that Puck’s embarrassed. Puck doesn’t do embarrassed. But he’s something else. Something that’s a little self-conscious and uncomfortable and confused all rolled together.

It makes the back of his neck feel hot, makes him avoid Sam like the fucking plague.

“All right , gentlemen,” Beiste says, voice booming across the turf, “last night was what I’d call disappointing. Hopefully tonight you’ll show me what you can really do. Everybody _move_!”

Puck’s tugging his helmet into place, about to take off for the field, when he hears Sam’s voice right behind him. “Puck. Puck—I…”

Puck runs onto the field. He’ll be able to deal with Sam. Eventually. Just not now.

+++

“Seriously, Puck,” Sam says, hand grabbing onto his shoulder, “why are you avoiding me?”

Puck shakes Sam off with a grimace. “I’m _not_ avoiding you,” he says.

It’s been like this all night—Sam trying to talk to him and Puck running away.

It’s worked out pretty well for Puck so far. Every time he really needs to get away, Beiste totally provides him with an excuse. Running play, laps for fucking up the running play, jumping jacks for taking too long on the laps. If the Beiste wasn’t so freaky, Puck would totally kiss her right now.

But now, Beiste is ripping Karofsky a new one on the other end of the field. And like that, a night of evasion and trickery is good for jack shit.

“Oh, whatever, Puckerman,” Sam says, throwing up his hands in exasperation. “Jeez, just—“ he tries to pat down his pockets, then seems to remember he’s in uniform—goes for his sock instead. “Would you just read this? Please?”

It’s not too big, maybe a note-card or a folded up note or something—no bigger than that. Puck’s about to say something, maybe give it a quick once-over, but just then, Beiste rounds on him, hands flying to her hips and voice booming across the field.

“Puckerman! Am I interrupting your _reading_ time? If I wanted scholars on my football team, I’d’ve recruited the chess team. Put that away and run some more laps.”

Puck shoves the note into his sock.

He jogs over to the Beiste, grabs her face, and plants one on her, right on the lips.

She sputters for a second or two, then her eyes seem to grow the power of freezing or something. At least, he suddenly feels like his whole body is made of ice. “Puckerman!” she yells, face bright red. “Laps! Don’t make me say it again.”

Puck lopes off to the track. Thank fuck for the Beiste. As far as avoidance techniques go, Puck figures just sticking to the Beiste like a second skin has to be one of the best around.

+++

Puck tugs the paper out of his sock as soon as he gets to his truck. He wanted to look it over before, back in the locker room, but just as he’d gone to tug it out, Karofsky and Azimio came in, laughter preceding them.

So it’s at least two hours after Sam gave it to him when Puck finally gets a chance to check out the note.

The first thing he realizes is that it’s not a note.

It’s a pamphlet, one of the ones on Miss Pillsbury’s desk, giant words with a little picture underneath. The picture is one of those cartoons with Bugs Bunny holding a giant paddle and whacking Elmer Fudd on the ass. And the words…the words are ‘So You Think You’d Like to Spank Others…’

Puck’s confused. For a second he thinks that he actually made the offer to Sam. But then he remembers, no, he didn’t. Sam didn’t want that.

He flips the pamphlet open, still thinking, and sees some of the words have been underlined. ‘Between two consenting adults’ and ‘Always keep communication open’ have red pen marks underneath. He’s about to flip to the back cover when he sees a little jog of red pen off the ‘consenting’ part. And there in the margin are more red pen marks, this time writing. “Make sure you have your partner’s approval. Forcing anything on them is _not_ okay.” The ‘not’ is underlined twice and written dark enough it’s almost broken through the page.

And that’s just plain weird. Not that Sam would think willingness was important or whatever. That makes sense. Sam seems like the kind of dude who’d like to make sure everyone was willing. But the handwriting doesn’t look like Sam’s at all. Sam always writes in great big letters, almost like a grade-schooler or something.

And this handwriting doesn’t look anything like that.

It does look familiar, though. Puck swears he’s seen something just like this before. But he can’t quite place where he’s seen it. He tucks the pamphlet back into his sock. Maybe he’ll look it over again. Try and figure out who was writing Sam notes about spanking. Or maybe he’ll just throw a blow dryer into his bathwater. He figures either one would be about evenly matched on the torture department.

+++

Puck has been staring at the back page of the stupid pamphlet for the past half-an-hour.

More specifically, he’s been staring at the picture on the back page.

It’s pretty vague, just two people—impossible to tell their sex—in the middle of a spanking. One has the other one over their knee, hand raised, caught mid-strike.

Puck should be thinking about Santana. He should be remembering what it was like to be nothing but clay for her to mold.

He isn’t.

He isn’t thinking about Finn, either. Which, it turns out, isn’t as much of a relief as he always thought it would be.

Nah, he isn’t thinking about either of them. He’s thinking about Sam.

He’s thinking about Sam throwing him over his knee. Sam’s hands tugging down his pants—getting them out of the way. Sam’s palm coming down on his bare ass over and over again until it’s nothing but heat and feeling.

Sam’s cock pushing into him—opening him up for the first time.

It’s that last thing that’s really worrying him.

Not the _spanking_ thing. The stupid spanking _fantasies_ he’s had for such a long time now and about so many people, it’d almost be weirder if he didn’t think about Sam _that way_.

But the sex…nobody other than Finn’s ever made it into his late-night fantasies _that_ way.

Before the whole spanking thing started, Puck got off on tits and pussies just like every other boy he knew. Even after the spanking thing, it was about fifty-fifty. Yeah, he got off thinking about a good spanking, but he got off just as hard thinking about just how high Brittany’s skirt had flipped in Cheerios practice that day.

It wasn’t until that night—the stupid night where Santana crossed the fucking line—that Puck started thinking about cocks other than his own. And even then it wasn’t cocks, it was cock—Finn’s cock.

Thinking about Finn’s cock didn’t get him hot. It didn’t get him excited for it. It didn’t make him pant to be in some—some _faggot_ relationship or something. It made him nervous really, antsy somehow.

But if he thought about it at just the right moment—if he really got into it, thinking about Finn taking over just like Santana and making the voices in his head fall away to nothing by slapping his ass ‘til it hurt. If he thought about it then, just then, he’d come like a fucking freight train.

Now, though, Puck hasn’t worked himself up to it at all. Now he’s just sitting on his bed, thinking about Sam and Sam’s nothing-to-be-ashamed-of cock and Sam’s fucking pamphlet. And he’s as hard as he’s ever been in his life.

He stares at the pamphlet for a minute more thinking about how _fucked_ he is. Then, for some reason, he gets this visceral memory of Miss Pillsbury writing him an excuse for Geometry. He remembers her tiny precise letters written carefully across the page in red ink.

And for the first time in a long time Puck feels the need to cry like a little girl.

+++

“I don’t know what Evans told you, but I’m not some kind of pervert or something!” Puck says, voice loud in the little room.

Pillsbury’s eyes are huge, startled looking, “Noah. I think—“

“Just because some people don’t like it or shit doesn’t mean it’s wrong or something,” he says, arms braced on her desk. Leaning like that he’s only about a foot from her or so. He growls, mouth screwed up until his teeth are all showing. “And I don’t give a shit what he said, I didn’t proposition him.”

Pillsbury looks at him all scared for a second more, then a look of comprehension crosses her face. She gets up from her desk, and for a minute Puck’s sure she’s gonna call the security guards or some shit. But all she does is shut the door to her office and lock it with a soft click.

She crosses back to her desk and sits in the seat she just vacated. She looks down at her desk for a second, mouth pursed, then looks up at him folding her hands in front of herself. “Noah, why don’t you have a seat?”

Puck pushes off the desk, starts pacing back and forth in front of her desk. “Sorry Miss P, I don’t feel much like sitting right now. What did he tell you? He tell you I asked him to…”

And there Puck loses his steam. Yeah, he didn’t actually proposition Sam, but how far away was he, really. He was stroking the dude’s arm, practically holding his hand. And he came _that_ close to offering a spanking.

Puck turns to the door. If some dude had pulled all that shit on Puck, after moaning at a stupid ass slap, Puck would’ve thought the worst too. “Never mind,” he says over his shoulder. “I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.”

“Noah!” Pillsbury’s voice comes from right behind him. When Puck turns around, she’s standing less than a foot away looking at him like he’s—like he’s a fucking head-case or something. “What is this all about?”

“Jesus!” he says. “What, you gonna make me rehash all the nasty details for you? That how you get your kicks or something?”

She swallows—smiles a small smile. “Sure. Let’s pretend that’s what this is. What has you so worked up, Noah?”

He rolls his eyes, tugs his backpack open. It’s there, right there, jammed into the front pocket. When he touches the page it feels heavy somehow, like a lead weight dragging him down. He yanks it out, shoves it at her, quick as he can.

She just looks at it for a second, lying there in his hand like an accusation. Then her mouth forms into an ‘o’ and she’s taking it from him, sitting back in her chair. She looks at it, still folded. Then her mouth purses and she looks at him. “Do you mind telling me where you got this, Noah?”

His jaw works for a few seconds. He bites his tongue, pissed off, lets all his air out in a rush. “Evans _gave_ it to me,” he says, throwing himself into one of the visitor’s chairs. “If he wanted me to fuck off he coulda just _told_ me that. Jesus.”

“Sam gave this to you,” Pillsbury says, looking back at the pamphlet in her hands. “He gave this to you and you thought it meant…” She bites her cheek, ducks her head making a funny choking noise. After a minute of her sitting like that and Puck getting more and more pissed, she clears her throat and looks back up at him. “I’m sorry, Noah, but I really think Sam should be present for this conversation.”

The way she took her time and all, Puck kinda figured she’d be really pissed at him or something, but when he looks at her, her eyes are all crinkled—almost happy looking. He closes his eyes tight. Great. Now even the frickin’ counselor’s making fun of him. “Whatever.”

He sits with his eyes screwed shut, head tipped back, as he listens to Pillsbury make the phone call that’ll bring Sam into this place he’s decided has got to be hell. Just what he needs to make his day even fucking better.

+++

Sam opens the door, big smile spread across his face when he sees Pillsbury. Then he sees Puck sitting in one of the chairs and freezes up. “Uh, am I interrupting—“ he says, swallowing whatever else he was gonna say. He smiles again, but this time it seems sorta fake. “Hey, Puck.”

Puck sends him a dirty look then he looks at the desk without saying anything.

“Sam, why don’t you take a seat,” Pillsbury says, sitting back down again. She smiles at Sam then sends a little nervous look at Puck. “Um. Um, Sam, I think Noah is a bit confused by the message you’re sending him.” She looks away from Puck, back at the stupid fucking pamphlet lying on her desk, face turning bright red. “Isn’t that right, Noah?”

And Puck wasn’t gonna say anything, but that—that’s just too fucking much. “Oh, I ain’t confused. I’m getting the message loud and clear. _Sam_ thinks that I’m propositioning him. He thinks I want to do depraved disgusting things with him and he’s warning me off.” He turns to Sam, then. Shoots him the nastiest most frigid look in him. “If you wanted me to back off, all you had to do was tell me. Jesus, Evans, I’m not some kind of predator. Fuck.”

It takes a second for Puck to actually be able to see Sam through the sheer rage coursing through his veins. When he does, he’s a little confused.

Sam doesn’t look pissed off like Puck half-figured he would. He doesn’t look scared or bored or…anything Puck thought Sam would’ve looked like.

Instead he looks shocked.

And apparently lost for words. He has his mouth open, moving, but nothing’s coming out.

Puck raises his eyebrow, about to say something—something to get Sam talking again. But Miss Pillsbury beats him to the punch. “Sam, is that what you meant by giving this,” she moves the pamphlet a little with a finger, “to Puck?”

“No,” Sam says. It sounds funny, voice all weird. Then he’s turning to look at Puck. Grabbing his arm and saying, “no,” again for good measure.

“Right,” Puck says, sarcasm thick in his voice. “Sure. You didn’t mean that at all.”

“I didn’t,” Sam says, eyes huge, pleading. “Puck, really. I didn’t mean…I mean, if anything it’s exactly the opposite. Really, if one of us is the—“ he swallows hard, looking a little green—“the _predator_ , it’s me. Obviously.”

“Wait. What?” Puck says, surprised. “Dude, that doesn’t make sense. I was the one with the whole,” he makes a slapping motion, “thing.”

Sam blushes—looks away. “No,” he says, voice gone soft. “No, I was the one with the—the,” he makes a little motion with his hand that could never in any of the fifty states be translated to spanking, “thing.”

Puck snorts.

“No, really,” Sam says, darting his eye to Puck and then away again. “Seriously, Puck. The—the _spanking_ thing. I like it.” ‘Spanking’ comes out as a whisper.

Puck looks at Sam who’s steadily avoiding his gaze, then turns to Miss Pillsbury. “Oh come on. Do you really expect me to believe this? How big of a moron do you think I am? Really? He’s like—a virgin.”

Puck sort of expects the “Hey,” but it doesn’t come from the person he expects it to come from. Instead of Sam being pissed about Puck slandering his masculinity or what-the-fuck-ever, it’s Pillsbury giving him the stink-eye. “There is nothing wrong with choosing not to engage in sexual intercourse. It’s a perfectly adequate life choice.” Her voice comes out angrier than Puck’s ever heard her before.

Puck raises his eyebrow at her then turns back to Sam. “Well?”

“What?” Sam says looking up at Puck again, then going back to studying the carpeting. “I’m not denying it. I’m a virgin—so what. Virgins can still like kinky stuff. Right, Miss P?”

Puck looks back at Pillsbury to see her blushing bright red and avoiding his gaze like the plague. “I told you that in secrecy,” she’s saying in an undertone to Sam.

“But, still, I’m right,” Sam says, gaining confidence. He turns to Puck then, looks him right in the eye. “I don’t want to be spanked, Puck. I—I want to spank you.” His face turns bright red, but his eyes are shining, looking at Puck like he holds the key to life or something.

Puck stares back. There’s no way. There’s no fucking way. It can’t be that easy. It’s not possible. If Santana didn’t work and Finn wouldn’t work, how the fuck could _Sam_ ever work?

Sam seems to deflate then. “Oh, okay. You—you don’t want that. That’s okay.” He smiles a crooked smile at Puck then goes to get up. “I—I won’t bug you anymore. Seriously.”

“Wait just a second, Sam,” Pillsbury says. “Noah hasn’t answered you yet.” She turns to Puck, gaze serious. “Noah? Would you like to answer Sam’s request?”

“What _request_ ,” Puck says, voice sullen. “All I see going on is Evans mocking me for digging a little slap and tickle.”

“Actually,” Pillsbury says, voice all reasonable, “Sam has already come to me concerned about certain—preferences he had yet to find among your age group. I assured him that eventually he would find a willing partner who would be just as interested in his—fetish—as he was.”

And yeah, Puck can believe Sam’d be pulling his chain. Sam’s a cool enough dude that he’d totally do that. But he really doesn’t believe Pillsbury is chill enough to make fun of Puck like that. Puck turns to Sam, and there’s no suppressed happiness in his eyes, no grin tucking his face up. Sam kinda looks like somebody whose dog’s just been run over or something.

“Dude, really?” Puck says, hope starting to grow in his chest.

Sam turns to look at him and he must see something in Puck’s eyes or something, ‘cause he goes from looking totally depressed to looking kinda giddy. “Totally really. I’d spank you anytime, Puck.”

And like that, the bubble of hope in Puck’s chest is fucking burst. ‘Cause, yeah, Sam’s willing to do the spanking part, which is great and shit. But all the while Sam’s been willing to spank Puck, Puck’s been getting a hard-on for Sam’s dick.

Jesus, Puck is such a fucking perv.

Puck buries his face in his hands, groans long and low for good measure.

Sam keeps talking like he never stopped. “Or fuck you. I would definitely fuck you. That would be totally cool too. Or blow jobs. I could totally get behind blow jobs.”

Puck’s head pops back up, eyes going straight to Sam. And yeah, Sam’s giving him a look. One of _those_ kinds of looks.

“Blow jobs, huh?” Puck says, licking his lips. “I could do blow jobs.”

And like that, Sam’s no longer sitting in his chair. He’s balanced over Puck’s instead, one hand holding Puck’s face still, the other opening, closing, opening, closing on his neck. And then they’re making out like Puck hasn’t done since he and Brittany got it on.

“Boys,” he hears from somewhere beyond Sam and Sam’s lips and Sam’s tongue. “Boys, I’m happy that you’ve come to an understanding. But do you think you could come to an understanding somewhere that isn’t my office?” Sam does something with his huge fucking lips that makes Puck feel like he might be in need of the frickin’ cum shorts. “Boys? Boys!”

+++

Sam puts a stop to it before they can get very far, fingers tightening on Puck’s neck until they hurt. “Puck,” he says, “Puck, we have to go to class. I don’t wanna get in trouble with my folks.”

Puck goes back in to kiss him again, but then Sam’s hand is coming down across his shoulder. Hard.

It makes every hair on his body stand up on end, makes him turn instantly hot all over. “If you want me to stop, that was a bad idea, Evans,” he says, voice turning to gravel in his throat.

Sam looks startled for a second then he goes flushed all over, face and ears and throat. “Jeez, you…” He catches himself, closes his eyes and bites his lips. “Puckerman,” he says, voice coming out like a whip, like a slap. “Puckerman, I’m going to count to ten and if you’re not out of the room by the time I’m done, we’re not having sex until you turn twenty.”

“Fuck, you’re a hardass Evans,” Puck says. He pushes the chair back, gives Sam one last hard kiss, and is out the door before Sam can get to ‘three.’ Who says he can’t take direction?

After that it’s like Sam’s torturing him or something. He keeps licking his lips. And adjusting his junk. And slapping the cover of his text book.

By the end of the day, Puck’s ready to burst.

Sam waves him over, bends close until his mouth is _just touching_ Puck’s ear. “Tonight I want you naked on my bed, spread over my knee and holding the winning game ball.”

Puck shivers. The picture isn’t perfect. There’re holes. Puck’s never been in Sam’s room so he doesn’t know what color the walls are, or what the bedspread looks like, or how soft the pillows are. But Puck can see this perfect image of him and Sam, there on the mysterious bed, naked and writhing. It’s vivid enough to be real.

Sam’s tilting Puck’s head _just_ so, mouthing over Puck’s neck—licking, biting—making Puck’s pulse race through his body. They stay just like that for a minute, maybe two, then Sam’s pulling away, saying something again. “But if we lose, you don’t get to come.”

And that—that rushes over Puck like a cold shower. “Whaddya mean I don’t get to come?”

Sam smiles, superior this time. “Sorry, Puck, but you’ve been playing like shit all week. There’s no way I’m letting you throw the game just so we can get naked a little sooner. You have to earn it.”

“Oh, _I_ ’ve been playing like shit. Just me, huh? Could’ve sworn there was more than one guy on a football team. Must’ve been totally stoned when they were handing out the rules.” Puck’s voice is harsh—pissed. If Sam’s already pulling this withholding shit, their relationship won’t make it through a fucking day.

“Don’t pull that card, Puckerman. Both you and I know that _you_ ’ve been playing like shit. You. Not anyone else on the team, just you. Your head hasn’t been in the game because of us. And if you toss the game because of us—well, what kind of quarterback would that make me?” Sam’s looking at him all serious, like he actually believes the shit that’s coming out of his mouth.

“I always heard there’s no ‘I’ in team. Guess that just counts when something good’s going down. When shit’s happening it’s all about the ‘I.’ That right? Glad to know you think so much of me.” Puck pushes the door to the locker room open, makes sure it swings shut behind him. Maybe this whole thing with Sam was a bad idea after all.

+++

Puck’s washing his hands after taking a piss when he notices it. Right there on his neck, larger than life.

A hickey.

A giant red-purple bruise of a hickey courtesy of one Sam Evans. He puts a finger over it, shoves in until it burns—until it hurts almost as much at the thoughts of Sam are hurting right now.

It’s embarrassing. Not the fact that he has a hickey. He’s Noah Puckerman, he’d be embarrassed if he didn’t have a hickey. Not the fact that the hickey is from a dude. It’s the twenty-first century. Bi is the new norm.

Nah, he’s embarrassed that he almost had _feelings_ for somebody. He almost had feelings for somebody who treated him like shit.

Second refrain just the same.

He’s so caught up in thinking about what a moron he is, he almost doesn’t hear the voices until it’s too late. Azimio and Karofsky. Puck slips into one of the stalls, braces himself on the seat so they won’t be able to see him unless they really work for it.

Normally he wouldn’t be hiding in a fucking bathroom stall like a little girl.

Then again, normally he wouldn’t need to hide a huge-ass hickey from the guys.

He listens to their conversation half-heartedly, more concerned with what the fuck he’s gonna do now that he knows Sam’s a jackass.

“I still say Beiste should’ve kicked him. The dude can’t play for shit,” Azimio says over the sound of piss hitting a urinal.

“Seriously, what’s his problem? I think we should get the queer kid back on the team. At least he can fucking score. The way Puckerman’s been playing, he’s more likely to score points for the other team than for ours,” Karofsky says.

And okay, that’s unexpected. That’s really fucking unexpected. Puck won them the fucking game last week, thank you very much. He’s so far above fucking Karofsky, he can’t even see the dude anymore.

“Beiste was gonna kick him,” Azimio says, zipping up. “After last night, she was gonna totally cut him from the team. And then Evans got her alone. And now it’s just fine that our receiver is handing the football to the other team.”

“Dude, if he doesn’t shape up, we’re beating him up after the game. With me?”

“Totally,” Azimio says. There’s a smacking noise Puck can’t quite place and then there’s the sound of the door opening and closing, cutting them off mid-sentence.

As Puck jumps off the toilet seat, he’s sure of two things: he’s never laying a finger on either of those dudes again and he needs to find Evans right the fuck now and knock some sense into him.

+++

Puck tries to pull Sam aside to talk some sense into the dude, but the game’s starting before he can make his move.

If Puck’s honest with himself, he’ll admit he’s been playing rough all week, images of Sam clouding up his judgment until he doesn’t know which side’s up anymore. So before he goes out on the field he pushes all that shit aside. He shoves all the anger and frustration and _feelings_ down until there’s nothing but him and his team. Just him and the guys. No Sam, no Karofsky or Azimio on the field. Just a bunch of dudes in numbered jerseys.

It’s easy to play then, nothing but him and the ball—the other team just a blur of yellow out of the corner of his eye.

He catches the ball, gets a first down, easy as tearing through tissue paper.

Then he gets another.

And another.

And then he’s scoring, six points going up on the board before they’re even five minutes into the game.

He shoots a look at Karofsky and Azimio—they look like dumbasses with their mouths hanging open like that.

And then he looks at Sam, Sam with his fucking heart on his sleeve, looking at Puck like he hung the fucking moon or something instead of just scoring six points on the goddamn football field.

Puck looks away. _Don’t think about it now. Not ‘til after it’s done. Not ‘til the game’s in the fucking bag._

+++

In the first half, Puck gets three touchdowns and twelve first downs. At half-time the score is twenty-eight to zero. Puck’d almost feel bad for the other team if it wasn’t for this new feeling taking place in his gut.

‘Cause, yeah, in high school, football is anybody’s game. But when Puck leaving the field, Anchester’s QB is crying, honest-to-god weeping like a baby. So the whole ‘in the bag’ thing—that’s pretty much happened.

Sam looks up when Puck walks over to where he’s stretching. He gives him a rueful grin, “I’m sorry, dude. You were right.”

Puck leans over him, arms braced on the bench. He speaks, voice low enough the rest of the team shouldn’t hear him. “I can fight my own fucking battles, Evans. I’m not a girl, or incompetent, or a retard. I don’t need you or anybody else to protect me from myself.”

Puck’s pushing off the bench, ready to head out when Sam’s arm closes on his shoulder.

Sam’s looking at him really hard, eyes almost cutting through him or something. “I don’t think that. I don’t think any of that. Christ, Puckerman, you’re the best thing I know. You’re the best part of this school, the best part of this town—the best thing in my life, man.”

He looks away for a second then he’s turning back to Puck, even more intense than before. “Dude, I’m not trying to protect you. I lo—“ He cuts himself off, shakes his head. “You’re such an awesome guy; you make me want to make your life as good as I can.”

Puck doesn’t know what to do with that. “I don’t know what to do with that, Evans.” It makes this weird mixture of warmth and irritation flood through him until he doesn’t know _what_ he feels anymore.

He pushes Sam’s hand off his shoulder, walks away from the whole mess. He’ll deal with it later. _After_ winning the game.

+++

“Puckerman,” Beiste says, looking at him over her clipboard. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m a damn fine player. The best you got. Karofsky and Azimio don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about. Just ‘cause I had one bad week, that’s no reason to cut me from the team.” Puck’s voice isn’t coming out how he wants it. Instead of sounding mature and self-assured he sounds like a whiney middle-schooler.

The Beiste gives him a hard look, eyes sizing him up. “Exactly what I told Karofsky and Azimio. And Evans.” She sighs, tucks the clipboard under her arm. “And then I told Evans you could fight your own battles. You’re no mouse, Puckerman.”

Puck raises his eyebrow. “Uh, thanks.”

Beiste grabs him by the elbow, steers him out of the locker room and back onto the field. “You are a damn fine player. One rough week is no reason to throw in the towel.” She gets a faraway look in her eyes. “I remember, after Payne Stewart’s crash I couldn’t hold a golf club for a whole year. The thought of such a brilliant young sportsman being gone… One day I saw my bag just sitting there, five-iron mocking me, and I said to myself, ‘Shannon, old girl, it’s time.’ Golfed once a week ever since.”

Puck bites back a yawn. “Who’s Payne Stewart?”

The Beiste looks like she’s about a second away from tearing him a new one. Luckily the ref chooses just that minute to blow the whistle for second half.

+++

They win the game thirty-eight to three. Beiste puts in all freshmen for the last quarter to throw Anchester a bone. Puck’s not sure whether he’s more impressed with how well the freshmen are playing or how terrible the other team is.

While everybody else is celebrating out on the field, Puck slips into the locker room and puts his plan into action.

He always keeps a good supply of shit he can use for pranks: water balloons and creepy crawlers, shaving cream and laxatives—and porn mags. He’s got the ones with schoolgirls and the ones with spanking, straight porn and lesbian porn and gay porn.

He takes two of the gay porn mags out of his locker. Then he grabs a pen and a notebook. It’s quick to write the two notes—easy to use things they say to each other all the time to make them believable.

There’s enough time to get them both in the right lockers—barely. Voices are echoing in the hallway when Puck ducks out of the locker room and heads back onto the field.

He walks over to where Sam and the Beiste are talking. “…remember everyone is different. If I tried to coach you and Azimio the same, Azimio would slaughter me. Or you would cry like a little girl,” Beiste says, voice serious.

Sam’s nodding, listening to every word like it’s the most important thing he’s ever heard. “I get that. I totally get that. But how do I know what approach to take?”

“Pay attention,” Beiste says. “You’re not stupid, Evans. You can see what’s right in front of your face. Usually.”

“Pay attention,” Sam says. “That’s it? That’s the great advice you promised me?”

“I didn’t _offer_ you advice, Evans. You came whining to me like a little girl about how you fucked up your ‘ _friendship_ ’ and wanting to know how to fix it.” She slaps him on the shoulder. “And I gave you the best advice I have. So go to it champ.”

“Huh?” Sam says. Then he seems to see Puck out of the corner of his eyes. He backs up and his face twitches like he can’t decide what expression to wear or something. “Puck. You’re here. Standing here right behind me. How long have you been standing here?”

Beiste walks away, waving over her shoulder. Puck swears he hears her say, ‘God help you both,’ but he’s not really sure. With the crowd noise it’s impossible to hear himself think let alone understand what the person next to him is saying.

Puck turns back to Sam. “Hey Evans, I’m heading out.”

“No. Really. How long were you standing there?” Sam says eyes going pleading.

“Hell, I dunno. Five minutes? Fuck if I know,” Puck says scratching the back of his neck.

“Oh,” Sam says looking away, blush spreading across his face. “Uh—I guess you heard then.”

“Yeah…” Puck says. He’s gonna go on—gonna say, ‘ _I really didn’t hear jack_.’

But Sam starts talking before he can open his mouth. “It doesn’t have to mean anything. Really. And it really wasn’t what I meant in the first place. When I said _love_ I really didn’t mean _love_ so much as _like_.”

“Wait, what?” Puck says. He can’t be hearing what he thinks he’s hearing. ‘Cause if he’s hearing that it means—

Sam keeps talking, not even stopping for air. “And really _like_. What does that mean, anyway? I mean, yeah I like you. But I also like roast beef. And mashed potatoes. I totally like mashed potatoes. And—and banana splits. Oh my god, I _love_ banana splits.”

Puck feels a smile spread across his face. “So you _like_ me, huh?”

“Um,” Sam says, swallowing hard. “Yes?”

“Yeah, you like me,” Puck says, smirk settling on his face. “So just how much do you like me? As much as mashed potatoes.”

“Uh,” Sam says, confused. Then he sees Puck’s expression, and a smile spreads across his face. “I really, _really_ like you.”

“ _Really_?” Puck says. “As much as banana splits?”

Sam’s smile grows. “More. Way more. As much as pickles.”

Puck grins back. “Really?” he says, voice turning into his most come-hitheriest voice he’s got. “Wait a second, pickles?”

+++

It’s not how Puck pictured it. The walls aren’t white like he expected, but yellow. The bedspread isn’t blue like Puck imagined. Instead, it’s red with footballs all over it. Which Puck’s gonna tease Sam about as soon as they’ve got their clothes back on again.

And Sam—Sam isn’t the perfect suave dude Puck was picturing in his head. Instead Sam’s all nerves, hands sweaty and voice squeaking when he says, “Come here.”

But Sam’s a whole lot of other things too. He’s a ripped bod and a gorgeous cock. He’s hot skin and hard muscle and wet mouth. Sam’s nice. Sam’s the nicest dude Puck knows. And if Puck was a chick, he’d probably think Sam’s pretty.

Puck’s not a chick.

All of that adds up. It’s enough. It’s enough that when Sam says, “Please,” voice breaking in the middle, Puck goes to him.

Sam’s sitting on the stupid football comforter, blush going half-way down his chest and hands clutching into the fabric of the comforter until it’s almost knotted. His cock is hard and thick and pink, standing up from a thatch of golden hair.

Puck reaches out—touches it. Before he can do more than run a finger across the head, Sam’s hand is flying out, closing around his wrist. “Did I tell you to do that?”

Puck closes his eyes, shudder passing through his body. “No,” he says, voice sounding hoarse to his own ears.

Sam lifts Puck’s hand up, up ‘til it’s at his mouth. Then his tongue’s running over knuckles, tracing between them, flicking at the space until it tickles.

“All right,” Sam says, voice as hoarse as Puck’s. “Okay. I want you on the bed. Over my knee. Just like we talked about.” He squeezes Puck’s hand then drops it.

Puck takes a deep breath in, then he’s crawling onto the bed, back arched over Sam’s knee, bracing himself on his forearms.

It feels so unsexy to be in this position, ass in the air. He doesn’t get how anyone could be turned on by it. But when Sam speaks again, his voice is as low as gravel. “God, Puck. Your ass.”

A finger is running over it then, soft—too soft. Makes Puck shiver. “Go on then,” Puck says. He’s not used to waiting like this. When he did this scene with Santana she always got started in right away, hand hitting flesh almost before he could get naked.

Sam’s whole hand is on him then, but it’s not hitting, it’s caressing—rubbing. “Seriously, dude. I think I’m in love with your ass,” he says, both hands on Puck then.

It’s weird. Puck’s used to the spankings. He’s used to them. How they start like a house on fire and make him light up just as fast. How they’re like a summer storm, cropping up out of nowhere and leaving him destroyed in their wake.

This is nothing like that.

It’s a while later when the slaps start. They’re so light, at first Puck can’t place what’s happening. And then he remembers _spanking_.

Puck grunts. Says, “Harder,” voice coming out rusty with disuse.

And Sam slaps harder. Not really hard. Not really all that hard at all. But hard enough to start the fire building at the base of his spine. “That what you want?” Sam asks, punctuating it with a rain of slaps. _Slap, slap, slap-slap, SLAP._

The last one is the hardest yet, perfect. It makes Puck’s back arch, head thrown forward then back. It brings a groan out of him, straight from his gut. “Yeah. God yeah,” he says, grunts.

“That’s right,” Sam says voice soft suddenly. It’s such a contrast with the rain of slaps that follow, it leaves Puck breathless. _Slap-SLAP, slap-SLAP, SLAP-SLAP-SLAP._

Puck’s back is arching again or arching still. He notices between one breath and the next he’s rubbing against Sam’s thigh hard as steel.

“Want you to come for me,” Sam says. “Come for me, Puck.”

And like that Puck’s back is arching even further and he’s coming in long wet spurts all over Sam’s thigh and cock and fucking football bedspread.

Puck collapses, breath coming out in a whoosh.

“Uh—Puck?” Sam says, nudging Puck’s shoulder a little. “Dude, I’m still…”

“Just fuck me already,” Puck says, voice muffled in the pillow.

Puck feels Sam’s cock swell against his thigh. A second later there’s even more come on the stupid bedspread.

“God,” Sam says, voice low. “Puck.” And then he’s collapsing next to Puck, tugging and pushing until they’re all tucked together.

“Christ, Evans. You’re such a girl,” Puck says. He tucks himself closer to Sam until they’re breathing the same breath.

And if that makes him just as much of a girl as Sam, well there’s nobody there to tell about it anyway.

+++

Chemistry the next day is the same as always. Peterson talking for hours about fuck-knows-what; Ben Israel stalking Berry like a giant freak; Sam wearing those stupid goggles that make his eyes look huge. ( _Luminescent_ , Puck’s brain says. Puck shoves his brain down until it’s completely buried under all the important shit like sex-drive and coordination.)

It’s not ‘til they break off into their lab groups that something strange happens. Puck’s going over to his and Sam’s lab table when Azimio corners him, says, “Puckerman, I know I said I’d never be lab partner with a stupid singer faggot like you, but I’ve changed my mind. Ready to do the lab, partner?”

On the other side of the room, Karofsky’s got Sam cornered, eyes all big and pleading.

Puck turns back to Azimio with a big grin on his face. “Sure. Why not? We can talk about how fucked up it is being gay in Lima. How’s that working out for you anyway?”

Azimio’s eyes grow huge, and then he’s shoving Puck into a lab bench, saying, “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. Faggot.”

Puck walks over to his usual spot where Sam’s waiting for him. “What the heck was up with those two? Karofsky was really weird. He kept talking about how we were friends but not in ‘that way.’ Whatever that’s supposed to mean.”

Puck thinks about telling Sam about the notes he left the two of them. The two notes saying exactly the same thing. “I’ve got nothing, man,” Puck says, spreading his hands.

Probably better if he doesn’t tell Sam. After all, when two dudes are that much in love, it’s nice to give them some kind of privacy about it.

Sam smiles at him, big as the fucking sun. “Whatever,” he says. “They’re jackasses anyway.”

Puck feels an answering smile spread across his face. “Sam Evans swearing? You gotta be kidding me. What’s gonna happen next?”

“I don’t know,” Sam says playing with the tube of liquid in front of him. “But it’s gonna be good.”

The tube explodes.

“I don’t know if I’d call that good,” Puck says, gesturing at the fire spreading across the table.

“Hey, at least none of our clothes caught fire this time,” Sam says.

Puck laughs. “Thank god you’ve got me looking out for you now Evans. I don’t think you’d make it through Junior year without somebody to put out your fires.”

+++

Ends up, Sam’s right. It is good.


End file.
